


That's Not Love. That's Hate.

by SpanishCoatofArms



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brother Feels, Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Child Abduction, Conquistador Spain (Hetalia), Dark Spain (Hetalia), Gen, Historical Hetalia, Iberian, Iberian Brothers, Implied Torture, Imprisonment, It's not love, Parent-Child Relationship, Poor Portugal, Really hate to see what Spain would do to someone he hates, You Don't Do That To Someone You Love, You Don't Do That To Your Family, implied child abduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22140676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpanishCoatofArms/pseuds/SpanishCoatofArms
Summary: 🍅Synopsis: His brother's love, or more precisely, the Conquistador's love, is not always a beautiful thing. It can be an ugly thing, absolute in its iron will and desire to warp everything that was unfortunate enough to be touched by it. To the point where Portugal thinks he couldn't even recognize it anymore. But all he could do was to try, try again and try harder, to appeal to his brother's reason.🐢Note: This is a one-shot. Please do heed the warnings in the tag paella ¡Gracias!🐢
Relationships: Portugal & Brazil (Hetalia), Portugal & Spain (Hetalia), Portugal/Spain (Hetalia)
Kudos: 26





	That's Not Love. That's Hate.

“So,” began Portugal, struggling momentarily to get air into his congested lungs, “in order to continue to be your brother, to rule the Iberian Peninsula by your side, to ensure the safety of my colonies from oversea – I must submit to your sovereignty, force feed my own people with your language and culture and custom…cast myself into the mold that you have designed for me.”

Portugal swallowed painfully, willing reassurance and what’s left of his strength into his form solely for the sake of Brazil. Brazil, who was frightened and couldn’t fathom the amount of troubles that’s waiting for him at the hand of Portugal’s irmão. His child, who was clawing uselessly at the hand that was gripping his hair too tight and calling out for him and Portugal doesn’t have the slightest idea how to get them out of this awful situation.

“That’s not love, España” the Portuguese entity gasped softly, resolutely and absolute in his conviction. The Conquistador paused his stride, back rigid and Portugal wished desperately for him to just turn around and listen to reason. He valiantly tried one more time to appeal to his irmão, “that’s hate.”

The air stilled. Some of the officers hunched further on their backs, not even daring to turn to see the Conquistador’s reaction. Regrettably, there was nothing for them to witness anyway. The perfect, cold, marble statue that was his irmão allowed no response or even a twitch of his fingers, the same fingers that were still holding onto Brazil. Portugal wasn’t even entirely certain if his irmão had heard what he said at all. Before he knew it, the Conquistador resumed his stride, exiting the room with the exact same steady pace that he entered erstwhile, and Brazil struggled to keep up with him and most certainly will end up scrapping his knees sooner or later.

Portugal allowed himself to finally collapse on the floor and he held his head between his hands. Metal rattled, almost sharp and blunt enough to cover up a single watery cough that left his throat. He’ll have to try again tomorrow. He just has to try harder, he has to.

* * *

🍅El Fin🍅


End file.
